


Crash and burn

by watermelonsuit



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Crash Landing, Dominion War, Don't the Vorta have a power bottom thing, Hate Sex, Jem'Hadar - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Poor Life Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watermelonsuit/pseuds/watermelonsuit
Summary: Everyone makes bad decisions, but Damar seems to make them more often when Weyoun is involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content note: depictions of alcoholism, Jem'Hadar violence, and nausea/vomit.  
> Jem'Hadar names courtesy of [STO Academy's name generator](http://www.stoacademy.com/tools/name_generator.php).

Damar's head pounds and his insides twist; these small Dominion fighters weren't meant for high warp speeds and kanar wasn't meant for coping with Dominion conferences with more Vorta than anyone--not even a shapeshifter--could handle. He reaches for the pail he keeps beside his bed for such occasions and lets the queasy feeling overtake him.  
  
"Good morning. Or rather," a cloying voice says, as its shadow approaches Damar's doubled-over form, "good afternoon." Damar chokes back another rush of nausea to look up at Weyoun, who's gazing at him with pure contempt.  
  
"Again." Weyoun taps the pail with his shoe. Damar doesn't have to be ordered.  
  
"Do you remember any of what happened yesterday?" Weyoun asks after Damar's retching has subsided.  
  
Damar wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Food poisoning," he says. "Damned regova eggs. Spoiled."  
  
Weyoun laughs a soft, slightly bitter laugh. "Hardly."  
  
"Cardassians know how to keep food fresh in transporters. That meal was inexcusable. Just because your Jem'Hadar mercenaries don't eat--"  
  
Weyoun rolls his eyes. "You were drunk hours before the conference dinner."  
  
"I don't remember."  
  
"Of course you don't!" Weyoun hisses, then begins again. "I think," he says in a measured voice, "you ought to reconsider your drinking habits."  
  
"I'm head of the Cardassian Union, I'm not taking orders from you."  
  
Weyoun chuckles. "I can easily change that."  
  
"I'm a Cardassian," Damar snarls.  
  
"Do you think that means anything to me? You're Central Command, not a member of the Obsidian Order--you wouldn't know where to _begin_ with me. Even if you did, you're an inebriate."  
  
Damar grumbles a low curse.  
  
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Weyoun says cooly, and sweeps out.

\---

"Oh good, you brought kanar," Weyoun says as Damar enters the bridge. He blinks behind his headset to refocus from the full bottle at Damar's side to the expanse of space outside the ship. 

Damar scoffs, and after a quick survey of the bridge--all Jem'Hadar, all taking their jobs too seriously--punches in a quick helm override at the console beside him. The ship rolls enough to jostle Weyoun. It was worth learning those controls after all.  
  
"What's the matter?" he asks Weyoun, barely suppressing a grin. "Feeling ill?"  
  
Weyoun glares at Damar, though still a bit shaky. "I'm fine."  
  
"Legate..." a Jem'Hadar pilot calls out from the helm, sounding alarmed.  
  
"I know!" Damar shouts in reply, turning to glare at him. The Jem'Hadar don't shrug, probably weren't engineered for it, but this one might if he knew how. As things are, he returns Damar's look with one that's a bit mutinous. Weyoun taps at his station's console before glaring at Damar.  
  
"Don't you think that _not_ drinking while you're maneuvering a ship would be a good idea?"  
  
"I'm completely sober," Damar says. It's true, even though he's holding a full bottle of kanar at his side: it's why he's so pissed off right now. "And Fifth What's-His-Name is steering."  
  
Weyoun sighs.  
  
"Legate!"  
  
Damar turns again. "What now?"  
  
"The starboard nacelle has failed."  
  
Weyoun turns to Damar, furious. "If you did this--"  
  
"No."  
  
"Damar!" Weyoun exclaims.  
  
"All right, I changed course for a moment, but he overcorrected it. The nacelle burnt out almost independently."  
  
" _Almost_. This is absurd."  
  
"Check the logs!"  
  
Weyoun pauses as he reviews them. "You're very fortunate," he tells Damar. "You," Weyoun says to the Jem'Hadar at the helm. "Who is your First?"  
  
"Ianu'Tekr."  
  
"Send him here." The helmsman speaks the name into a comm and Weyoun staggers a bit as the ship lists. "You both disgrace this ship," he says to the Jem'Hadar as they line up before him, and gestures to another. "You disgrace the Founders. Second Rykul'Emel, you may have the honor. And the helm."  
  
Rykul'Emel brings his phaser level with the First's head and fires; the Fifth flinches and Rykul'Emel seems to take some pleasure in eliminating him as well. The bridge is clear again, with a faint, metallic smell where the two were vaporized. Weyoun readjusts his headset.  
  
"We're moving dangerously close to a large moon. Can you restore the engines?" he asks Rykul'Emel.  
  
"Not yet."  
  
Weyoun huffs. "When?"  
  
"Not before we collide with the atmosphere."  
  
"Weyoun, we ought to--"  
  
"Be quiet, Damar." Weyoun scans the area in his view. "You're right. Prepare a lifeboat." Weyoun points to the Jem'Hadar at the helm and the communications array. "Second and Fourth, with us, please."  
  
"We could just beam down--" Damar begins, following Weyoun and the Jem'Hadar back into the halls.  
  
"Not a chance."  
  
"Oh, so flying a lifeboat onto the surface of a rocky moon with a high, dense atmosphere is less dangerous than popping down in a few seconds?"  
  
Weyoun sets his jaw. "I'm not going to argue with you, Damar."  
  
"Then we're taking the transporters."  
  
"No. There's not enough time to reactivate them. This way."  
  
Damar stops, taken aback as Weyoun and the Jem'Hadar continue. "You deactivated the ship's transporters?"  
  
"It was the safest choice."  
  
Damar races to catch up. "And now?"  
  
" _Now_ we are going to get into this lifeboat, where Rykul'Emel and Oer'Ytor will ensure there will be no accidents." Weyoun crawls into one front row seat, with Rykul'Emel beside him.  
  
"Why?" Damar asks. Weyoun ignores him. "So we're going to play this game." He turns to Oer'Ytor, the hulking Jem'Hadar squeezing him into the back. "Tell Weyoun that _I_ sit in the front." Weyoun doesn't say anything and Damar growls. "Get the Vorta out of that seat, would you?" he says to Rykul'Emel in the front. The Jem'Hadar stares back at him stonefaced.  
  
"Second Rykul'Emel, have you ever considered how superior you are to the Cardassians?" Weyoun asks without turning around. "Not dissimilar in base genetics, but of course your kind is much more advanced. In strength, of course, and spirituality, but mentally, too. For instance--"  
  
"Weyoun!" Damar barks from the back seat.  
  
Weyoun smiles affectedly. "For instance, you don't see Oer'Ytor complaining about not sitting up up here. He knows his place."  
  
"He is Fourth."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"Weyoun..."  
  
Weyoun fixes his gaze far ahead of himself, still smiling. Damar mutters and takes a swig, and the pod spins toward its destination.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The last fragments of the Jem’Hadar fighter flare out in the sky, sparkling like a meteor shower. Whatever's left of the rest of the Jem'Hadar company is up there on fire, Damar muses from the moon’s surface, and takes a long drink from the bottle in his grip.

“Remarkable.” Weyoun says, chin tilted skyward. As the last of the ship disappears, he looks to the group assembled behind him. "Well, that's that. What can you tell me?”

The three hesitate and Weyoun sighs. "You must know something."

“We’re on a small moon orbiting an uninhabited planet in the Almatha sector,” Oer'Ytor volunteers. “The ship’s sensors detected a small colony of Cardassian citizens on the moon before our landing.”

“A minor religious sect,” Damar adds.

“Religious Cardassians. Admirable, if misguided. And we're not out of range of passing ships?”

”Yes, but they're not going to see anything out of the ordinary if they find life signs. We’ll have to hope the emergency beacon holds out, or go to that cloister.”

Weyoun's eyes narrow as he purses his lips. “Someone should have designed Cardassian lifeboats with better communications equipment.” Damar crosses his arms.

“At least _someone_  put a lifeboat on that ship, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Weyoun scowls. “That’s the least of your concerns.”

“My concerns? You’ve died so often you think you’re immortal.”

“I didn’t make the choice to be killed in a transporter acc--”  
  
Damar sighs heavily. “Here we go.”

“ _What_?”

The Jem’Hadar shift their positions, looking at each other. Damar and Weyoun notice them again. After a tense moment, Weyoun smiles.

“What are we doing quarreling?” A forced laugh; Weyoun folds his hands behind his back. “I’m sure you two can go and find someone with a working communicator," he says to the Jem'Hadar. They look at each other.

"The White--“ Oer’Ytor begins.

"When you return," Weyoun says. Second Rykul'Emel takes a step in Weyoun’s direction. "When. You. Return."

"Make sure they don't kill anyone with a communicator,” Damar almost snickers, though Weyoun ignores him. "Well?" he asks after a beat.

"Make sure you don't kill anyone with a communicator," Weyoun parrots to the Jem'Hadar's backs, “and if you do, make sure you know how to operate it first."

\---

Damar kicks a pebble that it doesn’t fly quite as far as it would elsewhere; the moon’s gravity makes him feel sluggish. “We could have transported straight to the colony if you hadn't deactivated our transporter,” he tells Weyoun.

"We'll be fine."

Damar rolls his eyes. "Right. Maybe _you_ believe that.”

"Maybe _you_ should hold your tongue."

"What I wouldn't give for a hot meal and a little quiet."

"To the best of my knowledge, there are still rations on board. Not to mention that kanar of yours."

Damar clutches the bottle, annoyed. They didn't bring much with them, and whatever rations there are will have been meant for hardened soldiers with spare appetites. Damar stops as something else dawns on him.

“You didn’t remember the ketracel-white, did you?”

Weyoun is silent; Damar bursts out laughing.

"We'll be fine." Weyoun finally says again, but in the tone he uses when he isn’t sure of what he's saying.

“You didn't remember the White! You're no paragon of responsibility, Weyoun.”

“I didn't strand us on an outlying moon."

“And I didn't! It was the Jem'Hadar. Otherwise why did you have those two executed on the damned bridge of the ship?"

"They were an example." Weyoun narrows his eyes, defiant.

“An example for who?”

“ _For whom_  do you think, Damar?"

Damar snorts. "Your stooges are gone now," he says. “You’re welcome to make an example out of me." He stalks back to the lifeboat, wishing the doors would slide closed just a little louder.

\---

It doesn't take long to find the rations. Every packet has the same preserved purée likely dating from the end of the Bajoran Occupation. Damar didn't have the best choices in lifeboat amenities with Cardassian regulations only applicable to Cardassian ships, and he didn't think to demand them. He would have if he'd known he'd be stranded with some Vorta. No, not some Vorta, Weyoun. _Just my luck_ , Damar thinks as he chokes down the paste. It's sour and faintly metallic, but fortunately kanar is sweeter than the rations. It reminds Damar of a line from an old poem, _kisses sweeter than sweetest kanar_. He'll compose a new one, he thinks: something about sweet solitude.

Weyoun doesn't return to the pod by evening, and the Jem'Hadar don't seem to be nearby in a White-starved rage. It's not exactly serene, but Damar feels relaxed enough to strip his armor off, settling down on the front bench of the lifeboat in his tunic, leggings and socks. It’s not as bad as he thought, really. He could almost endure--

There’s an impatient knocking at the door. Damar tugs his collar as far up his neck as he can and stamps to the door.

"Finally. I suppose you thought I could just sleep outside?"

"You wouldn't?"

Weyoun glowers. He doesn't move past the threshold.

"Here. Take the bench. I don't want it anymore." Damar moves aside as Weyoun steps in, and punches the door control panel to hold it open, still in sock feet. "I'll just sleep outside."

"Don't be silly, Damar," Weyoun tsks. "You needn't sulk. Take the washroom."

"How generous of you."  
  
"Don't mention it."   
  
It turns out Damar is too tall to lie down comfortably on the washroom floor (Vorta don't remember not everyone can sleep in a cupboard), and it’s cold. After some fidgeting, he ends up propped up against the wall, legs stretched out as far as they'll fit comfortably.   
He could kill Weyoun, he really could, but the Jem’Hadar might blame him for the missing ketracel-white instead, and that wouldn’t go well.

He tries to take his mind off his surroundings: if there were friends here, he might be able to have a tolerable conversation. If there were a woman (not in the cramped washroom, but out in the main section, of course) Damar could exile Weyoun here instead. They wouldn’t have that much more room but they could press close anyway. He imagines her undressing and moans a little. He half-hopes Weyoun is listening. He slips one hand between his legs and moans again--he shouldn’t imagine Weyoun hearing him, he shouldn’t focus on his spite. It’s more important to feel the heat surging through his body. Damar tries to forget the Vorta and remember the feeling as long as he can, as though remembering will keep him warm.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sick again," Weyoun observes, standing over Damar's folded body and the pit in the sand he's heaving into.

"Rations," Damar says between gulps of air.

Weyoun only nods.

"Stop watching me."

Weyoun snorts and looks up at the dark sky. "There's not much else to do here."

"I can think of a few things."

An opaque smile. "Apparently."

Damar's heart pounds at the thought that Weyoun heard him last night.

"How much kanar do you have left?"

"Not enough to spend another twelve hours with you."

"Twelve hours? Is that all?" Weyoun’s smile is cloying, insufferable. "It seems so much longer."

Damar mutters in grudging agreement.

“But you know, it's important to find common ground." Anyone would hate that smile. Damar only shakes his head, unconvinced. “It's not so difficult.” Weyoun seems unbearably close now, prating on at Damar's side as if everything is fine. It’s not.

“We're sharing a pod on an almost barren planet. Wouldn’t you rather cooperate?” Weyoun pats his shoulder, squeezes it in the worst place, in the most ingratiating way. And yet--

"Don't stop," Damar says before he can think better of it. Weyoun draws back as he registers what he’s done.

"You're disgusting. A rutting animal."

Damar’s heart is mixed up with his stomach, and his breath is awful. He takes a swig of kanar, and spits it out again. The sweetness helps. “I know.“

Weyoun’s expression turns a touch more genuine. He doesn't stand up, though he’s studying Damar with a stern look. Damar's ridges flare.

"How interesting." Weyoun says, piqued. “What else do you do?”

“I’m not some trick hound,” Damar says, flushing dark gray. He runs one hand up his leg half-aware, kneading his inner thigh to keep from what he wants and looks up at an amused Weyoun. He pauses.

Weyoun nods. ”Go on."

Damar laughs and spits into his hand before shoving it into his pants. Weyoun smiles, this time with awful sincerity.

”You're weak," he purrs.

Damar's lip curls, but his hand moves faster.

"You'd do anything for me.”

Damar stops and Weyoun's smile widens into a smug grin. That’s the last straw: Damar pulls him to the ground with both hands.

"Would you like to find out?” he asks, tracing Weyoun's mouth with two slick fingers. Weyoun opens his mouth invitingly, cruelly, and latches onto Damar’s thumb.

"There you go," Damar murmurs. He runs his other hand over Weyoun’s neck, his collarbone, and although it's not Cardassian anatomy, the lightest strokes make Weyoun’s eyelids flutter. Damar bites his ear, his jaw, his own long hair falling into his face as Weyoun squirms to reciprocate.

“I just want you to shut up once in a while,” Damar breathes into his ear.

“I-- _oh_.”

“Shhhh."

Weyoun reaches for Damar’s groin, his hand slow but persistent.

“What do you think of that?" Damar asks, his hips rocking forward, his breathing heavier. He places his hand over Weyoun’s, feeling the slight bones and tendons working as Weyoun strokes faster. Pre-come spills into his hand, and Weyoun pulls away to examine it as it runs down his palm.

"Interesting.”

“Does everything have to be interesting to you?” Damar asks, stopping to catch his breath.

“As a matter of fact, there are very few things about you--“ Weyoun breaks off and inhales sharply as Damar pulls him closer “--that are.” His body twists in Damar’s arms; he’s struggling not to cry out. He presses his face to Damar’s chest.

“There’s a good Vorta.”

“Don’t say that,” Weyoun protests.

“Why? Live to serve,” Damar says, the words curdling even more than they do when Weyoun says it, and presses him to the ground again.

“I only serve the Founders.”

“Then serve them.” Damar gets to his knees with one hand steady on Weyoun’s chest, holding him back just far enough away that Weyoun’s eyes are wide and agonized.

“I do,” Weyoun pleads. He hesitates.

“But you’ll have me, isn’t that right?” Weyoun flushes and Damar chuckles. “You’re pathetic, Weyoun. Maybe even as pathetic as you think I am.”

“I am not.”

Another laugh. “Prove it.”

Weyoun runs his fingers over Damar’s hand on his chest, over Damar’s wrist, then twists his arm, hard. Damar falls on top of him, not entirely by accident. He clambers back up, tugs off his boots and strips off his clothing, falling half-headlong over Weyoun again. Weyoun’s pants come off, his jacket is opened, his shirt pushed up to his stomach; Damar strips off his own tunic. He stares at Weyoun half-naked before him, almost dazed.

Weyoun pulls Damar’s hand between his legs. “You halfwit.”

Damar smiles sarcastically. “You like me.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“Do you want me to stop, then?” Damar teases. He moves a little faster and Weyoun holds back another moan.

“D-don’t stop.” Damar slips a finger into him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks in a whisper, lips pressed to Weyoun’s ear.

“Yes.” Weyoun wriggles closer, pressing himself against Damar. Damar pulls his hand away.

“Say please.” He peels Weyoun’s hands off his neck; Weyoun yanks them out of his grasp.

“I won’t.“

“You’re not very polite, Weyoun.”

“Why should I be,” Weyoun huffs, “to you?” He folds his hands on his chest and settles back. “After all, you need this.”

Damar blinks at him. He curses under his breath and gets to his feet. “I don’t need you.”

Weyoun opens his mouth, feigning surprise. “That’s right! You have hands.”

“So I do.” Damar holds his breath for a moment. Finally: “You didn’t ask nicely.”

They glare at each other for a few intolerable seconds before they collide. Damar thinks Weyoun moved before he did, but naturally Weyoun would say Damar did. Weyoun fumbles for Damar’s hips and Damar kisses him sloppily and who crumbled first doesn’t matter as much as it ought to.

Damar struggles with that foppish undershirt and he’s about to rip the bunched fabric down the front before Weyoun lifts it over his head. Damar’s pants he quickly discards, and then Damar is skin-to-rigid-scales with the being he loathes most in the quadrant. The galaxy.

Weyoun doesn’t say anything as Damar fucks him, but he gasps breathlessly. Damar hopes he won’t start prattling—if he has to tell Weyoun off one more time, he’s going to burst.

Weyoun whimpers something in Damar’s ear.

“What?” Damar’s voice is ragged.

“...Please.” Damar throws back his head and laughs.

“Please fuck me, Damar. Is that what you meant to say?” he asks, mimicking Weyoun’s low, breathless tone. Weyoun glares before his eyes roll back and he whines, open-mouthed. Damar presses his forehead to Weyoun’s, clenching his jaw as he comes soon after.

\---

“Well?” Damar turns to Weyoun, who’s flat on his back, still panting.

“Again.”

“What?” Damar claws halfway upright to glare at Weyoun. “I’m not made of rubber.”

“Oh,” Weyoun sniffs. “I couldn’t tell from your uniform.”

“You little--“

“Again,” Weyoun repeats as Damar pulls the Vorta’s hips even with his own. He’s aching and raw and humps him almost mindlessly except for his annoyance with Weyoun’s demands. He comes quickly and keeps going until Weyoun’s back tenses and he gasps to keep from making more noise; he does anyway. Damar rolls over once more, exhausted, and doesn’t speak to Weyoun for the rest of the day.

\---

It takes less time for a communicator to show up than Damar thought, and he’s grateful for it. Two women brings it back with one of the Jem’Hadar (it’s not clear what happened to the other, and Damar forgets which was which), and gives Weyoun and Damar a strange look.

“You two…” the woman glances between them. "You two have an interesting relationship, I'm sure."

Damar opens his mouth, but Weyoun is somehow already chattering. “Oh, we have an excellent working relationship as allies. Cardassia and the Dominion work together out of mutual respect for our people," he declares, “and by doing so, we will win the war.”

"Oh." She doesn't look convinced. Weyoun smiles one of his supercilious smiles and pulls Damar aside as the woman steps away.

"Why did she say that?" he asks.  
"She probably thinks we have some kind of…” Damar grimaces. “Cardassian… romantic relationships contain a certain amount of argument."

"Oh!" Weyoun thinks for a moment, absorbing the idea. "Does that mean we--“

"No," Damar says. "It means some people can't tell the difference between romance and real hatred."


End file.
